


A Charitable Donation

by TAFKAB



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Fluff, Kissing, Kissing Booth, M/M, Mild Angst, crackfic, uncertain identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-20 12:34:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8249263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TAFKAB/pseuds/TAFKAB
Summary: Spock is astonished to find McCoy donating his time at an anonymous kissing booth.  When Kirk gives him a wad of cash and orders to spend it, matters quickly get out of hand.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Gratitude goes out to androgynousclintbarton and Theanishimori for second reading and extremely helpful suggestions! :D

Spock’s day began logically enough. However, like so many days when he started out standing at the side of his captain, it did not remain rational for long.

Unlike most of those days, however, this time the descent into madness wasn’t Kirk’s fault.

*****

Daris IV was an idyllic planet, very well-developed, with a friendly and peaceful humanoid population, an ideal candidate for membership in the Federation.

“They’re a shoo-in,” Kirk told him, then spent half an hour explaining the colloquialism when a sentence would have sufficed.

Spock didn’t mind, wandering at Kirk’s side and half-listening to his vague (and admittedly rather dubious) etymological pronouncements while observing the Darisian capital. The city seemed well-ordered, with streets and intersections neatly laid-out and clearly, reliably labeled. However, something about the place disturbed Spock’s preference for order and predictability. It might have been the wildly colored flower gardens and hanging baskets, the sprawling trees and tangled flowering vines climbing them… or the garishly dressed Darisians themselves, prone to walk up to any stranger and bestow gifts of flowers, comestibles, or random gestures of physical affection. 

Yes, that was definitely what left him ill-at-ease; after having his knees embraced by numerous small children on the street and receiving several impromptu embraces from adults, one from a pregnant woman who placed a crown of flowers in his hair, Spock was nearly ready to jump out of his own skin. 

“Relax, Spock.” Kirk chuckled at him. “They’re just being friendly.”

Spock raised a long-suffering brow at him. “Culturally sensitive behaviors will need to be addressed at some future date.”

“Let’s get them into the Federation before you rain on their parade.” Kirk chuckled. “Look, bunting!”

The bunting in question appeared to signal a street fair tucked into a cul-de-sac that terminated at a large hospital. Spock looked doubtfully down the length of the street. Ribbons, banners, and streamers sprouted from every possible surface, and booths lined the road, preventing the normal flow of traffic. A large number of Darisians wandered between them, apparently indulging themselves in unhealthy foods and games of chance.

“Bones has been volunteering in this place while we’re in orbit,” Kirk reminded him unnecessarily. “Teaching them some things about modern medical treatments and learning what they have to teach us.”

Spock nodded, polite, well aware of the human need to keep a constant flow of what they referred to as ‘small talk.’ “I read one of his preliminary reports. It seems they have a number of plant-based chemical compounds that may prove beneficial in treating illnesses the Federation has not yet been able to cure.”

“Exactly. He’s in his seventh heaven.”

Spock neglected to ask for clarification, instead pursuing Kirk quietly to the first booth, where it seemed artworks produced by sick children had been framed for sale. 

“All proceeds to benefit the hospital,” the attendant told them, smiling sweetly. 

Each of the Enterprise’s beam-down crew had been given a small sum of Darisian money; Kirk considered the artworks, which were understandably rather crude. “Is this the only place to make such a purchase?”

“All the booths accept payments, or if you prefer, you can simply make a donation to the hospital.” She reached up and placed a large blue flower, shaped rather like a hibiscus blossom, behind Kirk’s ear. She was reaching for another one for Spock, a feathery-looking blossom in a truly alarming shade of magenta, when Kirk set his hand over her wrist in haste to stop her. 

“We’ll move down the row, then, and we’ll be sure to make a donation before we go.” He smiled, charming, and tugged Spock away before he could be the nonconsenting recipient of additional floral enhancement.

Kirk was charmed by the fair, buying an alarming concoction made of sugar and fried dough. Spock declined his offer to share with something approaching unseemly haste, making Kirk chuckle. He had sugar on his face, and Spock was prepared to point out the faux pas when Kirk’s communicator chirped.

“I’m sorry t’interrupt ye, Captain, but Keenser’s lost his boot in the primary warp core shielding manifold, an’ I need ye to give me voiceprint authorization t’ take the mains offline.” Scott’s accent thickened when he was embarrassed, Spock noted.

“Why was he climbing on the manifold, Mr. Scott?” Kirk took another big bite of his fried dough, getting more sugar on his face. 

“We were havin’ a wee argument at th’ time.”

“I see.” Kirk rolled his eyes at Spock, who merely continued to consider the degree of offense Kirk might take if Spock took the liberty of dabbing his face clean with a moistened napkin.

“We won’t be able to beam anyone up or down if you take down the mains.”

“All shuttlecraft are operational an’ ready,” Scott protested. “An’ that boot’ll just work its way deeper an’ cause more damage if we leave it where it is. It might crack the crystal housings, if it gets far enough down.”

Kirk sighed. “All right. Spock, hold down the fort until we can retrieve Keenser’s boot, will you? Oh, and here.” He dug into his pocket, withdrawing his fold of Darisian bank notes, a somewhat more impressive sum than Spock’s own. “Spend these at the fair or just donate them to the hospital for me, would you? It’s for a good cause. Scotty, beam me up.” He thrust both the money and the remains of his snack into Spock’s hands before he could swirl into nothing, still decorated with powdered sugar.

Spock prudently gave the plate of fried dough to a small child, endured the ensuing affectionate display of gratitude, and straightened up, tucking away the money. He sighed a little. The fair held few attractions for him, but perhaps he might find a booth where he could purchase a suitably tasteful memento for Kirk and donate the remainder of the money to the charitable cause. 

He wandered down the street, passing from the children’s portion of the fair into an area suitable for adolescents—at least, if the dunking booth was sufficient grounds for him to make such a judgment. There was also a booth where one could purchase spoiled soft vegetables to throw at someone who had placed his face and hands through a hole in a wall; the crudely painted wooden wall was decorated with the evidence of poor marksmanship. However, enough had struck its mark that Spock approved of the victim’s choice to don protective eyewear.

He hesitated next to a stall featuring scenes painted in watercolor, mostly of a pastoral nature, but he could not find anything that spoke to him of Kirk’s particular taste in such matters, so he moved onward.

Then he stopped, raising a brow.

Leonard McCoy sat behind one of the booths, wearing a well-secured blindfold over his eyes; no items seemed to be for sale, as the counter in front of him was empty except for a jar. An attendant sat at his side. 

Spock blinked at this tableau, baffled; McCoy was grinning, and a short line of people stood before the booth. A few other beings sat next to McCoy, similarly blindfolded, some with a few in line, some with none at all. Leonard’s line appeared to be a popular one. The attendant bustled through the lines, accepting money; a barker closed a cordon between them and the busy street, separating those who had paid from those who had not. 

“Wait your turn, wait your turn!” He called to Spock, overly jovial, as though Spock had been pressing forward impolitely rather than standing precisely where he was, well back from the cordon. 

Spock could not read the Darisian characters on the banner stretching over the booth, so he remained where he was, curious.

“Step right up, step right up, ladies and gentlemen!” The barker began to shout, and Spock raised a brow, having just been admonished for crowding, now somewhat baffled at being urged forward. “Take your turn in line at the most popular event of the fair! You too can take a kiss from the most eligible doctors on Daris in exchange for your charitable dona—“

Spock hardly heard what the man said next; he drew himself up, startled. A kiss? Barbaric. Ludicrous. Surely McCoy was not….

He was. Laughing, McCoy lifted his face and accepted a chaste kiss on the cheek from a young girl—and then a much less chaste one from a lady Spock estimated to be approximately 74 Darisian years of age. He was laughing, his cheeks flushed beneath the dark strip that concealed his eyes. An attractive young man stepped up, and received a similar reward. McCoy reached out and held him there for an extra moment, and the crowd laughed when they finally drew apart. 

“Nice cologne!” McCoy grinned, sightless, apparently enjoying himself to an irrational degree.

Spock stood very still, shocked, considering the entire display in an attempt to decide whether it qualified as exploitation (at best) or prostitution (at worst). 

At least all the participants seemed to regard it as voluntary, and seemed to be entertained by their role in the degrading spectacle.

As the current set of clients departed through a chute, the cordon opened to allow the entry of replacements, and Spock felt himself jostled by a handful of eager participants as they pressed forward. After he stepped aside politely to let them pass, he realized he had erred.

The cordon drew shut behind him. 

“Excuse me, I….” But the attendant had passed on, and he was trapped on the wrong side of the rope.

Spock sighed. Logically, the path of least resistance now indicated he should pay the requisite fee, claim his forfeit if he was unable to escape the obligation to do so, and depart.

At least the participants were unable to see. He distinctly appreciated the necessity of protecting anonymity in such an exchange.

He placed himself in McCoy’s line, deeming that the danger he knew was preferable to one he did not. Fortunately, he was no longer committed to remain faithful to anyone; after yet another in a long session of emotional upsets, Lieutenant Uhura had announced she could no longer sustain their relationship, and they had finally decided to make their on-again-off-again separations permanent. 

“Thank you, thank you,” the hurried attendant accepted a small denomination bank note from his hand, never making eye contact.

As the first kisses were exchanged, everyone watching laughed and cheered, clapping, sometimes shouting encouragement or badinage. Spock winced at the volume of a whistle that exploded near his head; one of the female doctors was dipping her client—and after a moment observing the couple, it became clear she had recognized the man as her husband, for she used his name and teased him with a slap to the buttocks and a demand that he complete his domestic chores before releasing him.

Preoccupied by the spectacle, Spock was startled to find he had arrived next in line behind a young lady who received a chaste kiss on the forehead. An attendant standing next to McCoy was prompting him, Spock realized; his sharp ears picked up the words ‘adolescent female.’

He very nearly turned away at once to seek escape, wondering what the attendant would say to identify him, but the young woman was already gone and the attendant spoke before he could move. “Adult male.”

Spock relaxed a little, stepping forward perforce. 

“That’s more my speed,” McCoy laughed to the attendant. He stood up in the booth, leaning across a bit of board that was apparently situated in front of him to protect him from over-enthusiastic clients, and reached out for Spock; Spock realized McCoy needed the contact to ground himself before delivering the promised service. 

Spock worried that his body temperature might serve as an identifying feature, but he stepped forward anyway, declining to take McCoy’s hands in his own, instead letting the doctor’s palms settle on his chest.

“You’re a tall one.” The tone was lazy, approving, though the words made Spock feel a flicker of dismay; he was indeed taller than the vast majority of the indigenous people, a potential identifying feature he had failed to consider. It was too late to compensate, however. McCoy tilted his head a little, sensing where Spock’s face was by moving his hands up to settle over Spock’s shoulders. “Come on, don’t be shy!”

McCoy opened his lips, expectant; Spock found himself facing the daunting prospect of kissing his unwitting friend or potentially causing public unrest by bolting from the place, leaving the contract unfulfilled, which had the potential to humiliate the doctor.

Embarrassed, he leaned in and brushed his lips across McCoy’s—just a peck, brief and dry, holding all his telepathic shields at maximum so he would not invade the man’s privacy further.

“That wasn’t your money’s worth!” McCoy laughed, and one of his hands slid behind Spock’s neck, trapping him and pulling him in for a second kiss, warmer than the first but still mostly impersonal—just a touch of the heat of McCoy’s mouth against his lips, just a tease of how he would feel if he flowered open and let Spock in-- then withdrawal. 

Spock surfaced, blinking at an unfamiliar surge of longing in his chest, and McCoy let him go, stepping back.

“Female, young adult.”

Spock filed out through the chute, struggling to process what he had just experienced. 

It was highly illogical, but he found it difficult to quantify his response; his whole body tingled with unexpected arousal, and he found he harbored a distinct desire to return for more. Spock considered the evidence, disturbed.

Nyota had often scolded him for his failure to be aware of his own feelings. They often ran so quietly and so deeply they developed without his full awareness, then caught him off-guard with near-incapacitating force. This had the characteristics of just such an emotional event—a groundswell that had run quietly through his life, gathering force until unexpected circumstances prompted it to surface with potentially devastating effect.

He could not begin to say when his respect for the doctor had first mingled with affection, or how he had become predisposed to regard McCoy with desire. 

This emotional response was not wise. His experience with Nyota had taught him shipboard romances were impractical, recurrently detrimental to the vital performance of duty. 

Furthermore, unlike Nyota, who had quite pointedly made her feelings clear to Spock from the first, thus giving him reason to examine his own, McCoy had given Spock no notion he would be receptive to the idea of developing a more than professional relationship between them.

Worse, McCoy had no idea Spock had kissed him. Spock was just an anonymous pair of lips in the dark. McCoy had no reasonable expectation that any member of the Enterprise crew might stumble on the native fair; shore leave had not been granted. Spock and the captain had been the only two to come planetside other than McCoy, and had been busy ever since in their diplomatic capacity, though they had been granted a free afternoon unexpectedly at the conclusion of the morning meetings. 

McCoy doubtless had no intention to indulge in a romantic or sexual relationship as a result of his actions at the fair. He had merely offered himself as an exotic fundraising option, good-naturedly enabling the hospital to benefit from the novelty of his human attractiveness and the affectionate nature of the indigenous population.

Spock wandered on between the booths, still seeking a gift for Jim, but he did not see anything suitable among the crafts and kitsch available at the individual vendors. He experienced considerable difficulty in maintaining his concentration, preoccupied with the knowledge that McCoy remained at the kissing booth, blithely dispensing his kisses to anyone who wanted to pay for them. 

The dark feeling burning at the center of his chest was, he thought, one he had come to identify as ‘jealousy.’ He could not be certain of its full extent unless he withdrew and took time to meditate.

He paused at the end of the road, having passed through the entire fair. Turning back, he surveyed it again.

Perhaps he was mistaken in his estimate of the attraction. Logically, the only way to test an experiment was to repeat it and see if the same result could be created again. 

After all, he was under orders to dispose of the surplus bank notes, and he had found no more suitable item for purchase.

Spock returned to the booth, where McCoy still entertained a steady line of patrons. He joined them with some considerable self-consciousness. 

“Adult male, repeat visit.” The attendant sounded bored. Spock said nothing.

“Strong, silent type, eh?” McCoy reached out again, finding his waist. Spock blinked at him with alarm. More than half-expecting McCoy to instantly recognize the distinctive fabric of a Starfleet-issue tunic, he reached and caught the doctor’s wrists, removing his hands. 

McCoy looked a little startled behind his blindfold; his arms rotated, hands turning palm out, and Spock stared down in surprise as his own hands responded seemingly without being ordered, sliding to settle his thumbs in the hollows of McCoy’s palms. 

He pulled the doctor forward to claim his prize, moving slowly as he leaned close, hearing McCoy’s startled inhale and breathing in his slow exhale. 

He kissed the last of that breath from McCoy’s lips, startling a low murmur from him. McCoy’s mouth was warm and his lips were soft; they parted to admit Spock’s tongue, and his own tongue moved forward to touch Spock’s briefly. Heat blazed and swelled through Spock in response, with surprising force. 

“Nice,” McCoy murmured when he finally withdrew, voice throaty. “Thanks for supporting the hospital.”

Spock marveled at the doctor’s self-possession; to be handled so by a stranger would be absolutely inconceivable in his own experience, completely beyond the possibility that he might ever allow it.

He returned to the rear of the line. This experiment had indeed duplicated the result of the first. Perhaps further testing was in order.

“Adult male,” the attendant murmured again as he stepped up. “…Same one as before. I think he likes you.”

Spock felt himself flush with sudden embarrassment; McCoy chuckled. “Always leave ‘em wanting more.” He stood, unselfconscious, and opened his hands, inviting Spock forward. 

Spock handed over a sum of notes that equated to five times the price of a single kiss; the attendant blinked at them with mild surprise. “Five units,” he said, and McCoy’s grin widened. 

“I have a serious fan, eh? Okay. I’m game.” McCoy reached and captured Spock’s hand.

Spock inhaled sharply, unprepared. McCoy’s fingers curled around his, warm and self-assured. McCoy tugged him forward, toward the lopsided smile he wore. 

The first kiss was soft, teasing, just a brush of lips-- but it took Spock’s breath; he forgot to close his eyes, staring into McCoy’s face at such a close range his vision blurred. 

Then McCoy’s second kiss landed, the doctor’s teeth sinking lightly in Spock’s lip and tugging at it. Spock felt himself swirl into the heat of the kiss, logic dissolving like a pearl in wine, as McCoy slid his arms around Spock’s back and pressed forward with his tongue. 

When McCoy finally withdrew, Spock slowly became conscious of cheers and shouts all around him: not unkind, but full of joy, appreciating the spectacle of McCoy kissing him. He could not remember how many kisses he had thus far received, but McCoy parted from him much as he had begun, with a teasing brush across his lips, sending tingles up and down his spine. 

“There’s more where that came from. You just come back as much as you want, you hear?” McCoy’s voice originated deep in his chest, husky with arousal; his fingers trailed lightly across the back of Spock’s neck. Spock gasped, unwilling to relinquish him. But then McCoy stepped back with a teasing half-smirk and the next person stepped up.

Spock let himself be shepherded away, retreating to contemplate the results of his venture.

He glanced aside to the booth, where McCoy once again entertained strangers. They did not receive the same intensity he had; apparently his generosity had met with McCoy’s approval. That, and perhaps his persistence.

Spock removed himself deliberately from the scene so he would not be forced to watch McCoy with others. He went to a nearby booth, selecting a small sand painting in a corked glass vial and purchasing it for the captain. It would be easier to present Kirk with a gift than it would to explain what he now intended to do with the balance of the Darisian banknotes. 

*****

McCoy’s smile when Spock returned was ready and dazzling. He stood up, opening his arms in welcome, and Spock sank into guilty bliss yet again. He was beginning to despise the board that separated them; leaning across it to reach McCoy galled him. He would much have preferred to draw their bodies close, and it invariably prevented him from achieving that goal. 

When they parted, Spock allowed himself an indulgence, slowly sliding his hands over McCoy’s as they parted, fingers lingering. McCoy licked his lips, his face flushed. “Don’t be a stranger,” he purred, and waved as Spock departed. 

With that added invitation to encourage him, Spock returned immediately to the rear of the line, and soon they were as much an entertainment as any juggling act or raconteur at the fair. A crowd gathered to cheer them on, and McCoy began to laugh with pleasure every time Spock stepped in front of him, no longer needing the prompting of the attendant, but recognizing him by the noise from the crowd.

The kisses sank deep immediately now-- long, drugging forays into forbidden sweetness that made Spock’s heart race. He could feel the flush on his cheeks, and could not bring himself to care. Spock’s hands roamed over McCoy’s back and sides; McCoy’s slid along his arms and waist. Once the doctor’s fingers sank into his hair, and Spock almost forgot the danger of discovery, should McCoy feel the shape of his ears. But McCoy’s fingers found the crown of flowers Spock wore, and the doctor drew back to laugh to himself with delight, touching the flowers instead. 

The realization of how close he had come to exposure, which arrived only as Spock drew back and gazed at the drowsy half-smile of pleasure on McCoy’s lips, sobered him. He withdrew again for a time, putting a bit of distance between himself and McCoy’s booth. 

What would be the outcome if McCoy learned who was paying for his kisses? It might be quite unpleasant; McCoy had always resisted any attempts Spock made to express his friendship, cutting him off before he could verbalize his thoughts. He might be highly offended by Spock’s presumption. 

Spock frowned, prowling the booths with a swift stride, failing to notice that he had grown so intent and forbidding the natives no longer approached him with friendly gestures. Yes, what he was doing was highly unethical despite its seeming permissibility.

He would allow himself only one more indulgence, at which time he would donate the balance of the bank notes. Then he would make an inquiry with the Enterprise regarding the status of beam-out. Perhaps if the engines were still incapacitated he could be retrieved via shuttlecraft. Then he must put the events of this afternoon behind him.

With that resolution, Spock became fully aware of his surroundings once more. The warmest part of the day had passed, and fewer children darted through the crowd now as clouds slid through the atmosphere, eclipsing the planetary star, and a cool breeze began to blow. 

He returned to the booth, where McCoy now wore his leather jacket against the cold. It looked oddly appealing over his medical whites.

“Back for more?” The barker greeted Spock cordially. “Step right in!”

Spock ignored him, pausing for no particular reason other than to study McCoy sitting in the booth, his head tilted at a thoughtful angle as he listened to the crowd. Perhaps he was hoping for his mysterious stranger to return.

The crowd had thinned somewhat while Spock wandered; there was no longer need for a cordon, and a few of the doctors had already departed. Spock hung back, letting a handful of others pass in front of him as he considered the situation.

McCoy still seemed quite cheerful with his clients, perhaps engaging in the human philosophy of “giving value for money.”

Spock stepped forward at last, attempting to repress a flutter of tension. 

“Adult male, another repeat visit.” The attendant sounded bored.

McCoy smiled up at him with distinct pleasure, then reached out to greet him. “Welcome back. I thought you’d gone for good!” 

Spock gave the attendant an austere look, reproving, but did not speak.

The day was definitely fading, and the sky was filling with gray clouds that appeared likely to erupt into rain squalls before the hour ended. Spock’s attraction to McCoy remained undiminished; if anything, the kisses had whetted his desire. McCoy’s face tipped up toward him as if he could see Spock waiting, his mouth spreading in a gleeful smile of anticipation. 

The attendant blinked with surprise as Spock laid down all of his surplus cash. “He’s just put down a great deal of money, doctor.”

McCoy paused. “I’m flattered, and I’m sure the hospital will be grateful for your generosity.” Spock could see his pulse beating far too fast at the base of his throat. “I think that calls for a special kiss.” 

He could not have said why McCoy had not grown wary of such a persistent stranger-- his comfort with the situation seemed little short of madness to Spock-- but the doctor maintained his composure, standing up. “Just this last one, then I’m done for the day.”

McCoy reached out again, looping his arms behind Spock’s neck, and kissed him. Hard, long, hot, sweet… McCoy’s tongue plunged into his mouth, aggressive; McCoy’s hands slid down till they rested strongly on Spock’s waist, holding him still with surprising strength. After a moment of surprise Spock kissed him back just as hotly, hands sliding to McCoy’s back, wishing he could drag the doctor close, but the hateful booth separated them. 

McCoy kissed him fiercely, without restraint, the wooden board of the booth biting into both their bellies as he strained to draw Spock closer. Spock heard himself moan into the kiss, and vaguely he knew he should not, but could not spare the intellect to remember why. 

After a while McCoy drew back, apparently with considerable reluctance; he gave Spock several lingering half-kisses on the way, coming back for more several times just when Spock thought he had finished. McCoy was flushed a most appealing shade of pink from fingertips to ears, and he moved his hips with the telltale awkwardness of uncomfortable arousal.

McCoy straightened himself despite the apparent discomfort and cleared his throat. “I’ll be heading to the hospital cafeteria for dinner in a minute, if you’d like to join me.” Spock watched his adam’s apple bob as he swallowed, nervous, and drew himself upright, suddenly decisive. His hands rose toward the knot of his blindfold. “I’m giving you till the count of three, then this thing’s coming off,” McCoy warned, his voice kind. “If you wanna disappear so we can pretend I don’t already know who you are, now’s the time.”

Spock swallowed hard and fled.

That was what it was; an ignominious retreat, with little excuse, and it shamed him. He felt the first droplets of rain strike his face as he hastened down the street; everywhere people dismantled booths in haste, packing their wares into boxes and folding the bright bunting. Spock stepped aside into the shelter of a tree half-obscured by vines. The flower crown still sat atop his head, a little askew, its perfect pink petals starting to wilt. He took it off, regarding it for a moment as he ran it through his fingers to study its construction, then hung it from a nearby branch: a silent wish addressed to the spirits of this place.

His communicator chirped.

“Spock here.”

“Scott here,” the chief engineer announced unnecessarily. “I’m afraid we’ve encountered additional difficulties in removing the boot, Mr. Spock. To make matters worse, there’s an ion storm approaching your location. The captain has asked the Darisian Prime Minister’s staff to secure a lodging for you and Doctor McCoy for the night. I’ve sent the address to your tricorder, but Doctor McCoy isn’t answering his communicator. Can you contact him at the hospital and advise him of the change of plans?”

Spock’s heart gave a strange lurch, but he forced his voice to normalcy. “The doctor has had a busy afternoon. I will do so, Mr. Scott. Spock out.”

It seemed he had little choice, then, but to make the rendezvous and see what came of it. If he must, he would endure the doctor’s anger.

Spock turned his steps toward the hospital, entering through the westernmost wing and proceeding along a lengthy corridor. Signs marked the direction to the cafeteria, and Spock followed them without either haste or sluggishness, considering whether to complete the rendezvous as specified or to seek McCoy’s office instead, pretending to an innocence both would know was false.

He allowed chance to dictate his choice; the cafeteria was far easier to locate than an office in an unknown area, and he arrived at its doors before finding any indication of where the offices might be placed. 

There might still be an element of deniability, if he truly desired: it would be logical to expect McCoy to seek nutrition at this hour of the day. Many others from the hospital were apparently doing so; the cafeteria buzzed with conversation, and nearly all tables had been filled.

McCoy was not yet present. Perhaps he regretted his invitation, and would not come to see if Spock had accepted it. 

Spock felt his stomach flipflop with unaccustomed nerves. He did not allow himself to show signs of his conflict, but went through the line with his normal quiet mien, obtaining a hot drink and fruit for himself, then taking a seat by the window. Wind came in a gust and lightning flashed, illuminating the silver bellies of the leaves. As thunder rattled the building, rain began to lash down in earnest, streaking the glass and obscuring the street outside, where random bits of litter lay flattened and forlorn among the accumulating puddles. 

Spock’s stomach remained unsettled, so he sipped his drink and left the fruit for later, watching the rain collect in streams and run along gutters until it vanished down a storm drain set in the street. 

A hand settled tentatively on his shoulder, almost making him flinch. “Spock.” McCoy’s voice glowed with wonder, his whole heart audible in it. “You came.”

Spock turned, inexorably drawn by that tone, and met McCoy’s eyes, relief surging through him in giddy waves at the warm welcome he found waiting there. “Yes, doctor.” 

“Was it really you?” McCoy seemed to hold his breath, gaze locked on his face, drinking him in, just a hint of hope shining in his hazel eyes.

“Yes, doctor.” It seemed all he could say-- all he ever desired to say to McCoy again, perhaps. 

McCoy relaxed and gave him a radiant smile, pleasure dawning like a sunrise on his handsome face. His hand settled more firmly on Spock’s shoulder. “Mind if I sit down?” He didn’t wait for an answer, poaching Spock’s fruit cup-- an easy, casual larceny that tempted Spock to smile. 

“When the rain lets up, let’s go get some real dinner,” McCoy suggested, and his eyes danced with mischief. “I just picked up a message that said we’ve got a nice luxurious room waiting for us until Scotty can pry that irradiated boot out of the warp coil.” He ate the cut fruit straight from the cup with his fingers, an act that riveted Spock’s attention; he watched, rapt, as McCoy licked his forefingers clean of sugary juice, then wiped them with a paper napkin.

“Or we could skip dinner and go straight there, then order room service later?” McCoy’s voice grew softer, a little husky, terribly shy.

Spock nodded slowly and reached out to take that tantalizing hand in his own, rising and pulling McCoy to his feet as well, twining their fingers and tugging McCoy forward until they stood chest to chest at last. “That would be eminently logical,” Spock said, and kissed him.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] A Charitable Donation](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11199174) by [Night (Night_Inscriber)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Night_Inscriber/pseuds/Night)




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